It's Been One Week
by Klondike Aura
Summary: Half-year Fakiru Week submissions using the prompts I missed from the first year of Fakiru Week
1. Blue

"_The blues tells a story. Every line of the blues has a meaning._" -John Lee Hooker

* * *

The first thing Ahiru notices when Fakir comes home is that the jacket draped over his arm smells like smoke and alcohol. It seems out of place, especially since he didn't look impaired in the slightest. She tilts her small feathered head in curiosity.

"Sorry," he apologizes, dropping his jacket with the rest of the laundry that needs to be done. "Someone spilled his drink on me."

"Qua..."

He picks the small duck up, cradling her to his chest.

"I don't know if I'd say I had a good time," he admits. "But it was interesting."

"Quack?"

Fakir hums slightly as he remembers the evening's prior events. He had accepted a music student's invitation to a lounge and listened to a visiting musician. It's not the sort of place he would normally go, much less the sort of music he usually listened to, but part of the point was trying new things, learning more about the people who wound up in his stories.

Somber yet strangely rhythmic music permeated the dark room as the singer told of his woes, his voice gravelly but somehow compelling. It was no fantastic drama; this is a world without princes and ravens. But in the end, the songs were still the same stories. Some were about smaller tragedies like his formerly faithful dog running away or having a streak of unusually bad luck but the overwhelming subject was love gone wrong.

Some things plow through every medium, every genre.

Fakir carries Ahiru down to the kitchen and puts the kettle on single-handed. She nestles a bit closer against him and he feels a bittersweet warmth.

"You did the right thing," he tells her for not the first time. "Returning Mytho's heart to him. Even the feelings like loneliness and sorrow."

Ahiru blinks up at him, wondering where this came from all of a sudden. But Fakir doesn't elaborate further. He only sits at the table and strokes Ahiru's feathers until she can't help but fall asleep.

He's glad when she dozes off. He doesn't have to worry about how his smile doesn't reach his eyes.


	2. Youth

"_Nothing comes from nothing; nothing ever could. So somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good._" -The Sound of Music

* * *

"Well, isn't this interesting?"

Drosselmeyer drums his fingers on his cheek as he cackles. He usually doesn't like it when his tragedies get derailed but he thinks he can make an exception for this little detail.

She was only going to be a reminder for the gloomy boy walking half-lost through the wooded area near the pond. The full force of realization at what being the Knight means was finally setting in, making his small heart quake. What better way to punctuate that than leaving the helpless little duckling who ended up separated from her family in the same state?

But the gears were moving too fast in one spot, not fast enough in the other. The boy crunched through the overgrowth near the pond loud enough to stop the hidden crow from ripping the duck apart. The effect already spoiled, Drosselmeyer held up his hand in halt.

"You shouldn't be out here by yourself, you idiot," he tells the small bird. "Anything can come and get you if you're alone."

After briefly glancing around to see if the Prince was nearby, the boy scoops the duck up and carries her to the other side of the pond.

"Stop wiggling; this is for your own good."

He drops her off with her family, who quack and smooth her feathers in relief.

"Now don't get lost again, moron," he huffs, casting another wary look around the area. He hears a familiar voice call his name and, with one last turn of his head towards the duck, walks toward the sound of the blacksmith.

"Do you care for him, little duck?" Drosselmeyer muses to himself. "A Knight doomed to fall at the claw of the Raven?"

With a snap of his fingers, the duck is suspended in her own gear, suspended in the very moment.

"I can do something about that. All we need is a little time."

The old man who died long ago steeples his fingers before him.

"Now, bloom into a magnificent tragedy."


	3. Fight

"_It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog._" -Mark Twain

* * *

"No."

Ahiru pushes her wings against Fakir's hand. He resists, keeping as still as possible under her force.

"No, Ahiru."

She hops back, standing directly on the page and smearing the ink already there. Fakir tries to wave her off but this time she's standing resolute. He props his head up with his free hand.

"Standing in my way won't change what I have to do."

At that, Ahiru settles herself down right there on his work. Fakir stands and picks her up but she flails about with her wings, quacking right in his face. He tries to jerk her away but doesn't get far, worried that he'll drop her. She kicks into his hands and he loses his grasp on her while she briefly hovers in front of him. She lands down in his chair, making this her new spot to protest. Taking advantage of her position, Fakir grabs his papers and ink and bolts for the door. Ahiru hops down and tries to follow but Fakir is just too fast. She huffs as she continues far behind him.

Fakir didn't stop running until he reached the pond. He knew sooner or later Ahiru would be there, too, but he should have some time to work until then. He reads over what he has down so far, his mind working to replace what Ahiru smudged.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over him with every line he takes in. Ahiru was right, much as he didn't want to admit it. And she's even standing for the same argument he gave her in the Lake of Despair, which seems so much longer ago now.

It was inconsiderate and selfish at minimum. Fakir tries to rationalize his desire for her with everything he wants to give her and, oh, how he wants to give her _everything_.

But...

But if this isn't what she wants...

An apologetic quack shakes him from his thoughts after he breaks the tip off his quill.

Ahiru never understands why Fakir will work days on end on a story that's clearly troubling him. How many nights has she seen him toss and turn, restless in sleep, or even wide awake and turned away from her while the story consumed his mind? Why couldn't he just take a moment to stop if it's bothering him so much?

Fakir shakes his head at her and lifts up the busted writing instrument.

"Looks like I have to stop for now."


	4. Warmth

"_I don't think you can fake warmth. You can fake lust, jealousy, anger; those are all quite easy. But actual, genuine warmth? I don't think you can fake it._" -Keira Knightley

* * *

When Fakir wakes up, his first thought is that he's warmer than he should be for falling asleep at his desk. It comes to him that his blanket from the bed is over his shoulders. He groggily takes it off and rubs the sleep from his eyes with one hand. The papers on his desk shuffle as his elbow slides. He gives an inquisitive hum before picking up what he was working on earlier in the night.

The language is unlike anything he's ever seen before. It's nowhere near recognizable German, not even a Germanic language. It seems to defy all convention, flowing right to left with random capital letters here and there and few if any vowels. But it's all definitely in his handwriting. His fingers even still have the inkstains to prove it.

Before he can attempt deciphering it, however, his mind starts to catch up to him. If he fell asleep at his desk, why is his blanket on his back? Had Charon been in his room, he surely would have noticed. Right?

But the clattering sound that just came from the kitchen is surely the blacksmith. Maybe Fakir was so deeply asleep that he missed his foster father completely.

Things only get stranger as he goes to his bed to fetch Ahiru and finds both her and the top sheet missing. If anything, Fakir's starting to wonder if he's still asleep.

Well, he thinks as he replaces the blanket over his shoulders like a cloak, might as well explore this mystery.

It's still dark, still hours before dawn, but a reddish orange glow brightens the kitchen downstairs. Being up early isn't too much of a surprise for anyone in this house but at this hour?

But then...

"Ahiru?"

The disappearances are now connected, the duck turned girl once more having wrapped herself rather haphazardly in Fakir's bedsheet. At the sound of her name, she looks up from her work trying to get the kettle on.

"Fakir, you're awake!" she begins chattering, enthusiastic but attempting to be quiet. "You fell asleep while you were working and then I started changing into this so I went to check what you wrote but I couldn't read it so I just put your blanket on you and came down here because I was kinda cold and thought you might still be awake since you were still writing so I thought I'd make some tea-"

"Wait," he whispers, stopping her with his fingertips on her lips. And, because he figures it won't hurt to ask, "Am I dreaming?"

"Huh?" she stammers around his hand. "I don't think you are. I don't think I'm dreaming 'cause I've had dreams about being a girl again but it didn't feel like this felt."

Fakir takes his hand back and pinches the spot between his thumb and forefinger on the other hand. The pain doesn't lie: he _is_ awake. But how-?

"You said I was still writing? Even after you put the blanket on me?"

Ahiru nods, not sure where he's going with this. But it's much clearer to Fakir now and he's starting to hate his sleeping mind for it. He's going to have to make sure he doesn't sleep at his desk anymore if it's going to result in sleepspinning, especially if he has to decipher what he's written once he's awake.

But right now he can't deny the surge of warmth bubbling up inside at the sight of Ahiru as a girl again. Even though he's done it once already, he reaches to hold her shoulder just to confirm that she actually is there before him.

"Fakir...?"

And even he's surprised at the light laugh that escapes him right before he pulls her into his embrace.


	5. Feathers

"_Love melts the rigor which the rocks have bred; a flint will break upon a feather bed._" - John Cleveland

* * *

"Isn't this a little much?"

Ahiru meets Fakir's incredulous look from her bundles of scarves and her protective hat.

"It's still cool outside."

"We're in the middle of spring, moron."

"But it still gets kinda cold like at night."

Fakir lifts up the end of one of Ahiru's four scarves from the top of her bulky layers of shirts and coats as he says, "You never used to wear this much."

Has it been so long since she's gotten to wear clothes that she couldn't choose and decided to wear everything at once? That seems like the sort of duck-brained solution Ahiru would come up with. She would get excited or worry about hurting one garment's feelings by picking another before it. He remembers the story she told about the lamp that longed for affection.

"It's just..." Ahiru begins, wringing her hands over her three skirts and doubled-up stockings. "I don't..."

"Hn?"

Her voice drops down to a whisper when she explains, "I don't have my feathers anymore."

Fakir blinks, taking this in. "This didn't bother you before."

"I know but I- I've never been without 'em for so long. I remember what it's like to be a girl but I've never been one all the time."

Fakir doesn't say anything for a moment. He lets the end of the scarf drop from his fingertips as he gives her a small nod. He of all people knows how it feels to be exposed.

"I'm sorry if that's weird-" Ahiru apologizes.

"No," he cuts in. "You don't have to be sorry. If this is what you have to do to be comfortable, then that's that."

"You sure?"

"Of course."

And Fakir smiles when relief washes over what little he can see of Ahiru's face.


	6. Inspiration

"_You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club._" -Jack London

* * *

Fakir idly scratches at his parchment with the tip of his quill. He's come to accept that some days are better than others for writing but that doesn't make it any easier. It makes sense on the tough days to spend his time with Ahiru. After all, when he couldn't write for Mytho, he could write for Ahiru.

She's slowly improving on her technique, her transitions a bit smoother and her form a touch more elegant. No matter what, however, she was still the same awkward duck.

And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he wouldn't have it any other way.

He forms a few words on the page, attempting to describe her dancing. Fakir can't remember the last time he simply sat and watched someone else dance. And how many times has he actually watched Ahiru in particular dance? Her every nuance, no matter how imperfect, is overflowing with such pure joy that he eventually has to put his quill down.

It's here that Ahiru feels acutely aware of how intently Fakir is looking at her. Suddenly she's just as she is in front of Neko-Sensei, ridiculously stiff and more concentrated on doing things right.

"No, you're holding your breath, moron," Fakir tells Ahiru as he joins her, abandoning his scribblings. "If you forget to breathe, you won't be able to move."

He takes her hand and helps ease her into a wobbly arabesque, the ballerina letting a shaky breath out.

"You were doing fine before, so don't stop."

"O-okay," she agrees.

Despite his proximity, Ahiru finds it easier to breathe as Fakir continues to lead her in their impromptu pas de deux.

"Fall back," he softly commands.

Ahiru gasps, following his words and feeling his arm firmly support her lower back, her fingers just barely brushing the floor. The sound tempts Fakir and it takes all of his willpower to keep from leaning over and kissing her gently craned neck.

"Don't forget to breathe," he reminds them both instead.


	7. Love

"_Love is like war: easy to begin but very hard to stop._" - H. L. Mencken

* * *

Of all the reactions Fakir had been expecting, this wasn't even on the list. At least he thought to tell her outside so that she would have plenty of room for...well, this.

Once the words left his lips, Ahiru seemed to be frozen to the spot for the moment. Then a blush started creeping up her face until she was a sort of neon red. And then, as if a fuse had finally reached its end, she just took off running in wide circles, giddy giggling pouring from her the entire time.

Is this normal? He's not sure. It's not like he's ever told anyone this sort of thing before.

"Ahiru?"

The girl finally stops again, covering her mouth as her laughter begins to taper off.

"Do you- do you really mean that, Fakir?" she asks.

Now it's his turn to blush. This isn't some kind of joke to her, is it? Ahiru isn't teasing him, is she?

"Yes," he answers, his throat kind of dry now. "I really love you."

This sets her off to running in circles again.

"Hey!" Fakir shouts this time, taking hold of the braid flying behind her. "What- why is this funny?"

Ahiru jerks back and turns to face him, smiling wide and her cheeks flushed.

"It's not. It's just- I-" she tries to explain before dissolving into laughter again.

But instead of running circles again, she throws her arms around Fakir's neck and nuzzles into his chest. He's so taken aback that he drops Ahiru's braid and his hand goes to the back of her head.

"I do, too," she sheepishly admits. "Love you, I mean. I love you, too. And I didn't expect you to say that to me and I just- just _had_ to do something. I couldn't stay still!"

Fakir can't find the presence to call Ahiru a moron in the wake of her reciprocation. Suddenly he understands why she was running circles and isn't certain how he's managing to stand in one spot himself. He quells this urge by tilting her head up and pressing a firm kiss to her lips.

But during the brief moments they break apart for air, he finds himself laughing with her.


End file.
